Watch Out For Dean
by FaultyStars
Summary: Dad and Sam's arguments have become pretty much a regular occurrence these days, but neither notice the illness Dean's been trying to cover up, not wanting to worry Sam, or disappoint his father, until it may be too late. Sick!Dean, Wee!Chesters and the realization that Sam may need to watch out for his brother for a change, rather than the other way around.
1. Chapter 1

He'd become quite adept at predicting their arguments these days. He couldn't help it; he'd heard enough of them over the past few weeks, no _months_, to know pretty much exactly how they would go. It didn't matter which crappy motel they found themselves in, or which one of them started it, but it was invariably the same. Dad would bark out the latest orders, and then Sam would question it, or refuse to comply. Of course, then it would begin all over again. Dad would talk about the _'family business'_ and _'duty'_ and Sam would generally bring out the old favourites of _'it's my life, not yours'_ and _'you always ruin everything for me.'_ And every time, it would end with Dean caught in the middle of two freshly slammed doors; Sam having locked himself in the bathroom with one of his beloved books, and Dad having left them alone to go and cool off elsewhere.

Today, it seemed, was no different. With a start, Dean jerked awake, immediately checking his watch with bleary, screwed up eyes; 6pm. He'd been asleep for hours but the throbbing headache that had settled behind his eyes the day before still hadn't shifted, and for some reason, his chest hurt like hell. As he stretched and sat up, retrieving his boots from where he'd discarded them hours before, the sounds of Sam and Dad arguing began to drift in from the next room. Rolling his eyes and involuntarily wincing at the pain this caused his already throbbing head; he grabbed a crumpled shirt from his duffle and hurriedly pulled it on over his tee shirt, shivering slightly at the cold. With a slightly longing look back over his shoulder at his recently vacated bed, he hurriedly made his way into the adjoining room, hoping that today would be the day when his role as the mediator would be successful.

Just as he suspected, he found Sam sat at the small kitchen table, almost completely hidden behind a sea of books and papers. Dad, of course, was stood beside him, bearing down upon his youngest son with that familiar, impatient expression. So intent were they in their well-rehearsed routine that neither noticed Dean sidle in and sink into the threadbare sofa, snatching up an old magazine and listening to them carefully behind it.

'It's simple,' John was saying, frowning as Sam, continuing to do his homework or whatever, refused to even look at him. 'Just a vengeful spirit and it's a simple matter of burning the remains. I talked to the old lady this morning – it's her son's spirit causing the trouble – and he's buried out the back of their old house at the edge of the woods just out of town.'

'No thanks,' Sam said with an almost distracted air, still scribbling furiously.

John's eyes narrowed as they so often did these days. 'I wasn't asking you,' he said coldly, 'I'm telling. Get your stuff and let's go.'

'I'm not going,' Sam said calmly, finally laying down his pen.

'Like hell you aren't.'

'I've got a big test coming up, Dad, and I need to study.'

Dean sighed as they raged on, not even realising that he'd been staring at the same page of the magazine for ages without actually taking a word of it in. Again he was faced with his constant dilemma of wanting to stop his father and brother arguing, but not knowing how. Maybe it was because he could clearly see and understand where each side was coming from. He wanted to remind Dad that Sam was still a kid, all floppy hair and wide eyes and gangly legs. He wanted to tell him that Sam was a really bright kid who genuinely wanted to do well in school and had the brains to do whatever the hell he wanted. Just because Dean had chosen this as his life didn't mean that Sammy had to as well. But at the same time, he wanted to give Sam a good slap upside the head and tell him to stop being so damn disrespectful towards Dad who, after all, was just trying to protect them and kill the thing that had killed Mom.

Dad and Sam were more alike than they realised, Dean thought grimly, as he watched them over the top of his magazine. Both were firmly set in their ways and neither was willing to admit that they could be wrong. He rolled his eyes again, ignoring the short stab of pain in his head as Mom's name was dragged into the argument as he knew it inevitably would.

'In case you hadn't remembered, Sam, we are trying to hunt down the monster that murdered your mother!'

Sam scowled. 'No, I hadn't forgotten,' he said coolly, regarding his father with narrowed eyes. 'I just don't see how a vengeful spirit in Minnesota has anything to do with Mom!'

John took a menacing step towards his younger son, practically spitting out the words now. 'Three people have already been killed here, Sam, three innocent people, and who knows how many more if we don't put a stop to the damn thing.'

Sam had actually stood up now, and was practically nose to nose with Dad. Even at fifteen, he was almost the same height as Dad, and Dean had had to grudgingly admit that Sammy had caught up with him in the height department and would probably overtake him any day now. Dean realised that he had to intervene now, reluctant as he was, because it was generally at this point that things began to get really ugly. He had barely stood up and half formed what he was going to say when a loud cough he was unable to suppress silenced him, the force of it pushing him back down onto the sofa. He watched as the sound finally broke Dad and Sam out of their argument for a moment and they turned to look at him, aware for the first time that he had entered their midst.

'Dean!' They spoke his name in unison, each relieved, each believing that he came to defend their side.

Dean, however, was unable to answer, overcome by another loud cough that tore at his chest and left his moth dry and his heart racing. He instantly tried to cover it up, but he saw Sam's expression instantly change to one of concern, and inwardly cursed himself.

'What's wrong with you, Dean?' Sam asked at once, his voice considerably softer.

'Nothing, Sam, don't worry about me,' Dean replied at one, though the hoarseness of his voice slightly alarmed him, and Sam too by the looks of him.

'Your brother's right, Sam, we're talking about you here, not him.'

Sam rolled his eyes, pushing his hair off his face. 'I can see that,' he said, his voice immediately hardening once again. 'I can see that you don't even care that Dean's feeling sick. All you care about is this stupid, damn hunt. As usual.'

'Stop it, Sam,' John said sharply. 'There's nothing wrong with Dean. He's fine – aren't you?' he added as an afterthought, glancing over at his eldest son.

Dean nodded, pressing the palms of his hands on his forehead in a futile attempt to ease his goddamn headache. They had some aspirin somewhere, rattling round in the glovebox of the Impala he though, but he didn't think that was going to cut it. As if in sympathy with his throbbing head, another loud cough wracked through his body, feeling like it had cleaved his chest in two. Rubbing his chest to ease the pain, he looked up to see both Dad and Sam staring at him, almost suspiciously.

'You've been coughing for weeks,' Sam said suddenly, turning his head slightly as though to get a better look at his brother.

Dean frowned. 'So?' he asked, frowning.

Sam rolled his eyes. 'So,' he said slowly and clearly as though Dean was being deliberately stupid, 'you're obviously sick, dude.'

'It's nothing, Sam,' he said quickly, bending down to tie his bootlaces and resolutely ignoring the fresh, throbbing pain in his head. Little lights were popping in front of his eyes and he tightly clutched the sofa's armrest, willing himself not to pitch over and land headfirst on the stained carpet. Not in front of Dad and Sammy, anything but that.

'You're sick, Dean!' Sam burst out. 'You just went dizzy there, didn't you? Didn't you?' he added, more insistently.

'No,' Dean muttered defiantly, finally unclenching his fists once the room had stopped spinning.

Sam rounded on his father once again, his jaw set and grimly determined. 'This is all your fault,' he spat.

'What the hell are you talking about?'

Sam pointed at Dean, who was coughing loudly again. 'I bet you didn't even realise he was sick even though he's been up every night coughing.'

Dean suddenly felt a blush creeping into his cheeks. He'd tried to be as discreet as possible, disappearing off to the bathroom whenever he felt his chest tightening and had even run the shower and flushed the toilet to mask the sounds of his coughs.

Sam didn't appear to be aware of Dean's discomfort but ploughed on regardless. 'See, you didn't even notice and now you want him to go out hunting in the cold and wet.'

'Leave it, Sam,' Dean hissed.

'No, Dean!' Sam shouted. 'I know you don't want to hear it, dude, but you're sick and you can't even admit it. You're scared to tell me or Dad.'

Dean scowled. 'What the hell am I meant to be scared of, Sam? You?' he muttered.

Sam shook his head. 'It's Dad you're scared of. You don't want to admit that you're sick in case he thinks you're weak.' Sam broke off, thinking for a moment before adding, 'And you didn't want to worry me, did you? When are you going to get it into your thick skull that I'm not a baby anymore and you don't have to protect me every minute of the day?'

Dean leaned back in the sofa. 'Shut up, Sammy,' he said, not meaning for it to sound as weak and feeble as it did. 'Don't start having a go at me for not wanting to worry you. And besides, it's just a cold or something. I'm fine.'

Sam snorted derisively. 'Come off it, man. Your cheeks are bright pink and you're shivering so you're obviously running a fever. You need to go to bed.'

Dean glared at him, not least because his loud volume was doing nothing to alleviate his headache. 'Quit fussing, Sam, I'm fine.'

'No you're not!' Sam cried in frustration. He turned back to his father. 'Dad, come on, you're not seriously going to let him go on a hunt like that?'

'Your brother's a big boy, Sam,' John said stiffly. 'He can make his own decisions.'

'So Dean can make his own decisions and I can't?' he asked angrily. 'He can have his own life and I can't?'

'Dean's older than you are.'

'Sam, shut up,' Dean muttered.

'So you're taking his side?' Sam asked furiously.

'I'm not taking anyone's side.'

'Well I'm still not going,' Sam said stubbornly.

'We've already been over this,' John said through gritted teeth.

And they were off again, same as always. The subject of Dean's sickness was gone as Sam and John once again butted heads. He'd been stupid to think that they would be arguing over his wellbeing, and for a moment, he wished that maybe they could, just for once. He immediately told himself off for having such a thought. _Get a grip, Winchester_, he told himself firmly,_ you didn't want their pity, remember? You don't need it._

He listened to them arguing, and if his head hadn't been so friggin' sore and his chest didn't feel like it had been snapped in two, he would have recited the repetitive arguments since he knew them by heart now.

He couldn't say how much time had passed. All he knew was that he had to stop them shouting somehow because his head was about to explode, and he needed to cough again and he didn't want Sam's pitying looks or Dad's disappointed stare.

'Shut up,' he said quietly, 'both of you. Now.'

Sam and Dad both turned to look at him at once, their faces displaying identical looks of surprise.

'I'm fed up of it, ok?' Dean admitted, not entirely aware that he'd shut his eyes tights against the glare of the fluorescent strip lighting. 'Just shut up, both of you. I can't take it anymore. Every single freakin' day, you two start fighting and I can't listen to another damn word.' Both of them turned to start up a rebuttal but Dean kept speaking, ignoring the increasing pain in his throat. 'Sam, go back to your books, Dad do whatever the hell you want. I don't care. I'm going out.'

'Where the hell do you think you're going?' was mingled with 'Dean, you shouldn't go out in the rain if you're sick,' but he ignored them both. Getting to his feet much too quickly, but ignoring the lights popping in front of his eyes, he grabbed the keys to the Impala. Feeling it was about time he got to do some door slamming of his own for a change, he did just that – slamming the door hard, not caring about the wave of pain flooding his head as he did so.

Dean knew it was a mistake almost as soon as he'd pulled out of the motel parking lot. For one thing, it was indeed bitterly cold, the rain thundering down and he hadn't even grabbed a jacket on the way out. He knew he'd have to go back and face Sam and Dad soon, and neither would be pleased with him. He preferred to put that off for as long as he could. He knew if he went back now he'd be greeted with a silent motel room, Sam buried in his books and Dad off hunting the damned spirit. He couldn't go back to that just yet.

Except _shit._ He had just driven the Impala with the arsenal in the trunk away from Dad. Dad might have had his handgun on him, but that was no use against a vengeful spirit. Dad needed the shot gun loaded with rock salt, the lighter fluid and the matches, all of which were currently residing in the trunk of the Impala. Dean swore furiously under his breath, punching the steering wheel in frustration and immediately regretting it as a new pain was added to his already aching limbs. He would have liked nothing more than to pull over to the side of the road, curl up on the back seat and sleep for several hours, possibly days. He knew he couldn't though; he had a job to do, because didn't he always have a job to do? Swearing again, he swung the car round and sped off in the direction Dad had mentioned earlier, consoling himself with the thought that the sooner he did it, the sooner it would be over. With each bump in the piss poor excuse for a road, his head gave a corresponding thump and twice he actually had to pull over as he coughed, his chest heaving, his breath coming in gasps. The second time he removed his hand from his mouth, he could have sworn that he saw a few, faint speckles of blood but he hurriedly wiped his hand on his shirt before he could dwell on it.

He wasn't sure how long he drove for, but he was grateful to see the tress that marked the edge of the forest, so the grave that Dad had talked about wouldn't be far off. He quickly parked the car by the edge of the road, ignoring his body's aching protests as the relentless rain poured down, instantly plastering his hair to his head and making him shiver uncontrollably. He squared his shoulders and gritted his teeth, marching off into the trees. He stamped around in circles for ten minutes, continually stepping into puddles that send waves of icy water into his socks and boots, making his teeth chatter loudly. It was only then he realised that he hadn't actually lifted the salt gun or the matches from the Impala's trunk. How the hell was he supposed to get rid of the spirit without them? As another wracking coughing fit took hold of him, he almost sank to his knees, but grabbed hold of a nearby tree trunk to steady himself. Unfortunately, the rain had made the trunk too slippery to get a good grip. Bent almost double, he began to cough again as a sickening wave of dizziness washed over him. The pain in his head actually causing him to cry out this time, he lost his balance completely. Pitching forwards, he felt something sharp strike his forehead before, mercifully, the darkness enveloped him and he knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

'Dad,' Sam said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence like a gunshot. He stood by the window, peering out through the blinds at the almost deserted parking lot. 'Dad,' he said again when John didn't answer, 'Dean's taken the car.'

When at last John spoke, it was in the cold voice that Sam usually associated with times when he was in the deepest of trouble. 'Of course he's taken the care, Sam, we saw him take the keys.'

Of course Sam knew that, but he willed himself to keep calm, not to argue back for once in his life. 'I know that, Dad, but the entire arsenal's in the trunk, isn't it? What if he's gone off to hunt that thing alone?'

John's face instantly hardened. It was one the rules he'd always insisted on that his boys never went on hunts alone, that they never went out without having someone to watch their back. Dean had never disobeyed his father before, but John had never seen his son look so angry or hurt as he'd slammed the door behind him. If ever Dean was feeling reckless enough, it would be tonight.

'Come on,' he said suddenly, 'we've got to go and find him.'

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Sam obediently nodded and pulled on a jacket as he followed Dad out into the parking lot. It only took a couple of minutes for John to commandeer a perfectly innocent looking blue sedan and they were soon hurtling off towards the edge of the woods. All the while, as they mercilessly trundled over potholes, united in a way that only Dean could bring about, Sam tried again and again to call Dean from Dad's cell.

'_Hey, this is Dean Winchester, but if you're lucky enough to have this number then you already knew that. Leave a message!'_

Again and again, Sam was greeted with the recording of his brother's voice but could take no comfort for it. If Dean couldn't come to the phone, then he was injured or unconscious or – _Shut up_, he told himself firmly.

They'd barely been driving for more than ten minutes when John abruptly stopped the car. 'That's the Impala, isn't it?' he asked, pointing to an abandoned care by the side of the road. On Sam's nod, he swung himself out of the car, Sam close on his heels. 'This is nowhere near where the grave is. He should have driven a lot further in.' he murmured anxiously. 'Why the hell would he stop here?'

'Dad, he looked like he had a fever,' Sam reminded him, the gentle tone of his voice surprising them both. 'He wasn't thinking straight.'

Sure enough, this point was confirmed when they examined the Impala to make sure than Dean simply hadn't fallen asleep in the front seat or something equally innocent. With a sickening jolt, Sam saw that they keys were still in the ignition. The Impala was Dean's pride and joy, his baby, and Sam knew Dean would never carelessly leave the keys behind if he was in his right mind. Sam pocketed the keys for safekeeping as John opened the trunk and swore under his breath.

Sam was by his side in an instant. 'What is it, Dad, what's wrong?'

'There's nothing missing,' he said shortly. 'The salt guns are there, the matches, everything. He's gone off completely unarmed.'

'Shit,' Sam whispered, and John nodded in agreement, not even reproaching his youngest son for his bad language.

'Come on,' John said quickly, handing Sam a flashlight and a shotgun packed with rock salt. He shut the trunk with more force than was necessary and the loud noise reverberated even above the deafening din of the thundering rain. 'I think we should split up, cover more ground. I don't think he could have managed to get that far, but meet back here in ten minutes regardless. You hear me, Sam?' he added fiercely. 'I don't want to lose you either.'

Sam nodded and turned on his flashlight, grateful for the bright path of light it cleaved into the ever growing darkness. He set off at a run, calling Dean's name as loudly as he dared as he ran the flashlight over the dark, sodden ground. He was with Dad in the thought that Dean couldn't have gone too far, but fear stabbed at his insides as the minutes ticked away with no sign of Dean. Under his breath, Sam cursed his idiot of a brother who decided it would be a good idea to go out in the torrential rain when he was sick – _so you wouldn't have to go hunting_, the small voice in his head finished for him. Great. Now he was feeling guilty on top of everything else as the realisation why Dean had done this crept up on him, making him feel decidedly ashamed and more determined than ever to find his brother. He called his name one last time, knowing he was going to have to go and meet up with Dad in a minute or two. This time, however, he was greeted with a loud, hacking cough that could only be coming from Dean. Sam winced as the coughing got louder; it sounded like Dean was doing his best to cough up most of his internal organs. Sam swung the flashlight over the ground and finally it lit upon a sodden heap that could only be his brother.

Sam dropped to his knees beside Dean at once, the cold dampness of the ground immediately seeping into his jeans. Dean had stopped coughing now, but he remained curled up on himself, his arms wrapped protectively round his ribs. Even by the flashlight Sam could see how pale he was, though his cheeks were flushed a deep angry red as though someone had slapped him hard, and when Sam gently touched his forehead, he withdrew his hand at once in shock. Dean was burning hot, despite the chilly rain and his lack of a jacket and the fact he'd been lying on cold, wet ground.

Sam dug in the pocket of Dean's jeans and pulled out his cell phone, calling Dad who thankfully answered on the first ring. 'I've got him, he's with me.'

'How is he?' Sam had never heard his dad with such a note of pain in his voice before.

Sam hesitated a moment before answering. 'He's not looking good, Dad,' he said at last, dropping his voice to a whisper so that Dean wouldn't hear. He didn't even know if Dean was awake, sure he was moaning slightly under his breath but his eyes were still closed and he hadn't moved. Sam told Dad where they were and disconnected the call with dad's assurance that he was coming to meet them.

Sam pocketed the phone, then gently shook Dean's shoulder, hoping he wasn't hurting him. 'Dean?' he called. 'Dean, it's me, it's Sam. Can you hear me?' For a moment, Dean didn't stir, so Sam shook him again, harder this time, willing his brother to wake the hell up. With a sharp intake of breath and another bout of painful sounding coughs, Dean's eyes fluttered open, dazed and confused.

'S-Sam?' he choked out, his hoarse voice almost completely unrecognisable.

Sam breathed out, temporarily relieved that Dean was awake. His relief instantly subsided, however, when the coughing started again, leaving Dean gasping for air.

'Come on,' Sam said firmly. 'Dad's waiting for us. We're going to get you some help.'

For possibly the first time in his life, Dean allowed Sam to help him to his feet, which served as just another reminder of how sick he really was. As soon as he'd pulled Dean into something resembling a standing position, Sam pulled his brother's arm round his shoulder, keeping him upright as Dean's knees buckled and he swayed alarmingly. Grateful he was the same height as his brother these days, Sam navigated their way back towards dad. Even though Sam was supporting most of his brother's weight, Dean's face had gone slightly gray with the exertion and his eyes were screwed up in pain.

'I…can't,' he gasped, coughing again and spitting out what looked horribly like blood.

'Yes you can,' Sam said firmly, tightening his grip as Dean tripped and nearly went headfirst. 'I've got you, and we're going to get you to the hospital.'

'Dad's going to kill me,' Dean moaned, the sentence punctuated with much spluttering and gasping for breath.

Sam could have said it was more likely to be passing out on the muddy ground in a torrential rain storm while he was horribly ill that would kill Dean, but that would hardly have helped matters. Sam instantly regretted even thinking it. Dean wasn't going to die, of course he wasn't. Sam's big brother was indestructible. He'd seen Dean in plenty of tight scrapes before – and he'd always pulled through, always. This was his big brother who beheaded vampires and killed werewolves without a second thought. Of course he was going to be fine.

All the same, Sam was immensely glad when the beam of Dad's flashlight fell on them. 'Dad!' he cried, never more grateful to see the man in his life.

Perhaps he had relinquished his grip for a second because Dean was suddenly slipping from his grip, seemingly intent on meeting the ground again. Dad was there in an instant, grabbing Dean's other arm and pulling his eldest son upright again.

'The car's just up here,' he said, though Sam wasn't sure if this was for his benefit or for Dean's. He wasn't even sure if Dean was still awake – he hadn't spoken in a while. Dad seemed to have the same concern. 'Still with us, Dean?' he asked, and to Sam's relief, they received a quiet 'I'm here,' in reply.

After what seemed like an age, the familiar sight of the Impala came into view and Sam quickly handed Dad the keys. They'd just begun the seemingly impossible task of moving the dead weight that was Dean into the back seat without hurting him when the coughing started again. The horrible rattling sounds filled the air as Dean was forced to double up, emptying not only blood, Sam noted grimly, but what looked the entire contents of his stomach as well. It was only when they pulled him upright again that Sam noticed the long gash high on Dean's forehead. Great. Concussion on top of everything else. Just what Dean needed right now.

Deciding there was no easy way to get Dean into the car, Sam slid into the back seat first, gently pulling, while Dad pushed, Dean in beside him. Within seconds, Dad was in the front and they were off. Despite the heat radiating from his skin, Sam could hear Dean's teeth chattering even above the roar of the car's unreliable old heater and the rain hammering the roof. He pulled off his own jacket at once, tucking it round his brother's shaking shoulders.

'Keep him awake, Sam,' Dad called over his shoulder.

Sam didn't need telling twice. He needed to keep Dean awake but it was easier said than done. His eyes were only half open, his head nodding forwards as though he was desperate to go for a good long sleep. But Dean couldn't close his eyes – if he did, he might never open them again. Dean had protected Sam and kept him safe for as long as he could remember. It was about time he returned the favor.

'Hey, Dean,' he said quickly, thinking of the first thing he could and running with it, 'remember last summer, when Dad was hunting those werewolves in Topeka?' Sam accepted his brother's low grunt as a 'yes' and ploughed on. 'Remember that diner where we ate breakfast every day and there was the really hot waitress who was totally into me?'

Sam glanced sideways at Dean, convinced he was coughing again, but he was relieved to see that his brother was actually laughing, or attempting to at least. He felt a momentary stab of relief before it was dispelled by the dark line of blood trickling from the corner of Dean's mouth.

'Dad,' he said warningly, but Dad didn't hear; hunched over the steering wheel, clenching it so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

'In…your d-dreams,' Dean wheezed.

Sam forced himself to sound normal, injecting his voice with a good humour he hoped didn't sound as false as it felt. If Dean could make the effort, then he definitely could.

'No way, dude, she was checking me out and you know it.'

'You…w-wish.'

Sam prattled on, talking about anything and everything he could think of, anything to keep Dean awake. He was fighting a losing battle; he knew he was, Dean's replies were becoming shorter and shorter each time, his breathing more laboured. He just hoped Dad knew where he was going and they got to the hospital soon. He wasn't sure how much longer Dean could hold on. A particularly sharp turn in the road pushed Dean sideways towards Sam. Unable to hold himself up, he crumpled, his head slumping onto Sam's lap where he lay motionless. Sam didn't have the heart to push him up again but felt his arms close protectively round his brother.

'Still with me, man?'

'Al-always…am.'

The truth of this couldn't be denied. Sam couldn't remember a single day of his life when Dean hadn't been there for him. He was the one who taught him how to tie his shoelaces and the one who'd beaten the crap out of a kid who'd dared to call Sam names at school. Dean was the one he woke when he had a nightmare, and the one who remembered what flavor chips he liked, and stayed up to watch movies with him when he couldn't sleep. Sam would be damned if he was going to give up on his brother now.

'I've got you, ok? Don't worry,' Sam said fiercely. 'And don't think about going anywhere without me.'

'N-never…' The rest of Dean's words were cut off by more coughs and Sam felt the blood speckling his jeans.

'Dad, quickly!' he shouted, knowing with a sinking feeling that they were running out of time.

'I'm going as fast as I can, Sam,' John called back. Sam knew they were driving as fast as they could in the torrential rain, and dad had ran at least three red lights, but he still feared that it wasn't going to be enough.

As the coughs finally subsided, Dean fell silent, his head lolling back into Sam's lap once more.

'Dean?'

No reply.

He called his brother's name again, and again, and Dad was yelling from the front seat but Dean wasn't listening. But Dean always listened to Dad, he never disobeyed and if Dad was yelling at Dean to wake up and open his eyes then he would. But he didn't. A hand in front of Dean's moth told Sam that his brother was breathing – but only just.

'Come on, man,' Sam said desperately, choking the words out past the lump in his throat. 'You promised you'd always be there for me, right? To protect me? Well, I need you; right now I need you more than ever.' The words twisted Sam's insides. He hated himself for what he was about to say but he felt sure it was the only thing that might work. 'Dean,' he said, trying to sound firm and authorities like Dean. 'Dean, I'm in trouble and you're not here to protect me. You're not doing your job, Dean, you're not watching out for me. I need you and you're not here.'

Sam could see Dean struggling to open his eyes, see the single word his blue-tinged lips were shakily trying to form. With seemed like the greatest effort in the world, he finally managed to gasp out, 'Sammy!'

Sickened and ashamed that it was the thought of his brother in trouble rather than himself that had pulled Dean back, Sam placed a firm hand on Dean's trembling shoulder. 'Stay with me, Dean, alright? I need you here. I can't do it, any of it, by myself.'

His hand on Dean's shoulder was immediately thrown off by the huge, uncontrollable shudder that suddenly went through Dean's body, his arms and legs jerking wildly as Sam tried desperately to hold him in place.

'Dad!' he yelled. 'Dad! He's – I think he's having a fit, or a seizure or something. Dad, what do I do? Dad!' he yelled again, when no answer came.

'Fever seizure,' John muttered, barely audible over Dean's groans as he writhed wildly and Sam struggled to keep hold of him. 'It's a warning to lower his temperature. You need to hold him still.'

'I'm trying,' Sam said through gritted teeth, Dean apparently doing his best to make sure he fell off his seat.

With a loud gasp, Dean's eyes flew open, which should have come as a relief but his eyes were glassy, his gaze unfocused, their brilliant green somehow diminished.

'Mom?' Dean whispered, and with a horribly jolt to his stomach, Sam saw that his brother was crying, actually crying. Sam had never seen his brother cry before, but the tears leaking from the corners of Dean's eyes were undeniable. Sam did his best to swallow the lump in his throat. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

'Dad, what do I do?' Sam called desperately, making no attempt to disguise the tears cascading down his own cheeks now.

'M-mom?' Dean whispered again, the seizure finally stopping, his limbs relaxing as his eyelids fluttered shut again.

'Dad, help me! What do I do?' Sam yelled.

'Sam, you freaking out isn't helping anyone!' John snapped, his eyes fixed firmly on the seemingly never ending road ahead. 'Pull yourself together!'

Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. After everything that had happened, his dad still managed to find time to tell him off.

'Give it a rest, Dad.'

'What was that?'

Sam willed himself not to shout, knowing it was the last thing that the now unconscious Dean needed. 'I think we've got more important things to worry about right now, don't you?'

'Just concentrate on helping your brother, would you?'

'What do you think I've been doing?' Sam retorted furiously. 'Can't you drive any further?' he added irritably.

'Don't you think that if I could go any faster I would?'

'Well, you need to hurry up!' Sam glared at the back of his father's head.

'Sam, for the love of God-'

'St-stop…f-fighting.'

The sound surprised them both. Roused perhaps by the familiar sounds of his father and brother fighting, Dean looked up at Sam through half open eyes. 'Pl-please,' he added, his voice tightening as the latest bout of coughing prepared to make itself known. 'F-for…me?'

Of course there was nothing, absolutely nothing that either Sam or John could say in return to that. John urged the car onwards, breathing out in relief as the bright lights of civilisation finally burst into view. Sam simply stroked Dean's sodden hair and kept talking, long strings of nonsense about 'holding on' and 'nearly there' and 'keep fighting.' He knew it was useless really because Dean had gone somewhere Sam couldn't follow.

After what seemed like hours, John finally reached the hospital, coming to a halt so abrupt that the brakes squealed in protest. Without a word, John and Sam bundled Dean up between them, his arms and legs dangling limply as they ran towards the doors of the emergency room. And then there were people, unfamiliar people in white coats and scrubs, barking orders and yelling things that Sam didn't understand. They pulled Dean out of Sam's grip and were already wheeling him away before Sam could tell them that he was coming too, because he couldn't let Dean go off on his own, that's what started all this in the first place and Sam would be damned if he made the same mistake all over again. The doors had slammed in his face before he could say anything aloud. As dad was taken to one side to give Dean's details, Sam sank into one of the plastic chairs and buried his face in his hands, unable to suppress the emotions that had been building ever since he had set off into the tress with his flashlight what felt like years before. He didn't even care if Dad saw him. _In fact_, Sam thought savagely, _I want him to see, and if he had any decency he'd be sobbing as well because he is just as much to blame as me. _


	3. Chapter 3

The night seemed to last forever. Sam was sure that someone had made the clock on the wall go deliberately slow just to aggravate him. The nurse had suggested they go home, that the hospital would call immediately if there was any news, but the look Sam gave her was so intense that she actually recoiled and took a step back. Dad had disappeared to make a few calls and Sam supposed he was checking to see if there were any hunters nearby that could take care of the job Dean had nearly died in the pursuit of. _Yeah, that's really the most important thing here, isn't it, Dad?_ Sam thought bitterly. As usual, the job was the most important thing in his father's life, not his desperately ill son who was currently fighting for his life. Sam hadn't seen his brother since they'd whisked Dean away nearly three hours before. The nurse, every time she passed and Sam looked up eagerly, said there was no news yet, but keep hoping, keep praying. Sam didn't think Dean believed in God anymore but Sam did, and he prayed to God, to the Saints, to the angels, to anyone who was listening. So far, his prayers had gone unanswered.

_If Dean gets better_, he thought, _I'll never let him go off by himself again, I'll let him pick what to eat for dinner every night, and I'll never laugh at the music he listens to again. I'll never fight with Dad again. _It had been Dean's last coherent thought, his last words, the last thing he'd heard had been Sam and Dad fighting again. _'Stop fighting. Please. For me.'_ Dean had never asked for anything for himself. Never. If he asked Dad for food or for money, it was because Sam was hungry, because Sam needed something, because Sam wanted something. Shame pricked at Sam's insides again – that's what had started all this off. Sam was concerned about what he wanted, and Dad was concerned about what he wanted and neither had realised that Dean needed them. Dean hadn't been able to confide in either of them because they were both too wrapped up in their own concerns.

Dad dropped into the seat beside him just as the nurse rounded the corner once again. Sam jumped up at once.

'Mr…Winchester?' she asked, consulting her clipboard, while Sam registered surprise that Dad had actually used their real names.

Dad looked up at the mention of his name. 'Yes?' he answered immediately. 'Is everything ok? Is Dean-'

The nurse forestalled any further questions. 'Your son's in the Intensive Care Unit, Mr Winchester. He's really very ill and suffering from bacterial pneumonia, a touch of sinusitis, as well as two broken ribs and quite a severe concussion.'

'Is he going to be alright?' Sam asked, sounding impossibly high pitched and childish.

The nurse's face softened slightly at the sight of his anxious expression but her words did little to comfort him. 'He's not out of danger just yet,' she said, in a matter of fact tone that made Sam's insides squirm.

'Is he awake?' Sam knew what the answer would be, but he needed to ask anyway, just to be sure.

The nurse smiled sympathetically. 'No, not just yet, sweetheart. He's heavily sedated just now.'

'Is he in pain?' Sam could feel Dad's restraining hand on his shoulder, warning him to give it a rest, but Sam shrugged it off. He needed to know.

'We've made him as comfortable as we can,' the nurse said, not entirely answering Sam's question.

'And when will he wake up?'

The nurse sighed. 'Just let him get through the night first, then we'll take it from there.'

Dad asked the next question before Sam got a chance. 'Are we able to see him?'

Sam could see that the nurse wasn't happy about it. Probably, she wanted Sam to wait outside, believing him to be too young, and that it should only be Dad who was allowed in. Sam, however, had no intentions of being left out in the corridor while Dad got to see Dean.

'Please?'

She relented, beckoning them to follow here, warning them to be quiet for the sake of other patients and visitors. Sam nodded, not thinking he'd be able to speak even if he wanted to.

If Sam wasn't quite sure that the person in the bed the nurse indicated was definitely Dean, then they might have walked straight past, for the pale, sick boy held together by wires and tubes and tape was the furthest person imaginable from his wise cracking, smart ass big brother. Against the snowy white pillow and sheets, the little of Dean's face, not obscured by the obtrusive ventilator or the large bandage protecting the gash on his head, appeared almost grey, though his cheeks were still flushed a deep, angry red, and his lips retained a worryingly blue tinge. Dean just looked so fragile – and that was never a word Sam ever thought he could associate with his brother. His flushed cheeks made him appear years younger, and Sam wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not, but Dean appeared smaller, diminished somehow. No, he definitely wasn't imagining it. Dressed only in a flimsy hospital gown rather than his usual bulky leather jacket and at least two layers beneath, Sam could see that his brother did indeed look thinner than usual. Frowning, Sam suddenly remembered that Dean had refused lunch that day, claiming he wasn't hungry even though Dad had picked up cheeseburgers and Dean usually inhaled his in about ten seconds flat. Feeling ill as he remembered, it occurred to Sam that Dean hadn't wanted breakfast that morning either. How long had Dean been going out food and he hadn't noticed? That should have been an obvious sign that something wasn't right and Sam hadn't even registered it. It was just another example of how he'd failed his brother, how Dad had failed him too.

Almost gingerly, Sam approached the bed while the nurse spoke to Dad. Sitting down in the chair beside the bed, Sam took Dean's hand, the one not attached to an IV. He worried he was hurting him, he looked like the slightest gust of wind could snap him in two, but he needed to hold onto his brother, needed to physically feel that he was still there, even if he couldn't speak.

'Hey, Dean,' he said softly. 'It's me, Sammy.' He didn't even register the use of the hated nickname. 'Dad's here too. You're in safe hands now, dude.' He looked down at their joined hands; Dean's still burning hot, lax and limp, grasped between both of Sam's. In spite of himself, Sam smiled, albeit a little sheepishly. 'Man, we're having a total chick flick moment here. You'd kick my ass if you could see me holding your hand. I'd be embarrassed if I wasn't sure you weren't too hopped on meds to notice.'

Dad joined them, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. For one, he didn't shrug away, though the gesture felt alien, unwelcome, and he wasn't quite sure if he liked it. For a minute or two, all three Winchester men sat in silence; Sam and John each lost in contemplative thought, Dean hopefully lost on some painless, dug induced pleasant dream. At last John spoke; shocking Sam out of the reverie he'd fallen into.

'That nurse reckons I should take you home. She says you look like a drowned rat and you need a warm bath, a warm meal and a warm bed.'

'I'm not leaving him,' Sam said at once, not taking his eyes off his brother and momentarily forgetting his promise not to fight with Dad.

To his relief, Dad didn't insist he do what he was told. 'I thought you'd say that. The nurse agreed to keep an eye on the both of you if I went to go and get you some food and dry clothes.'

'You're going to get rid of that spirit, aren't you?'

'Have to, Sam. There's nobody else in town to do it.'

'Couldn't you call Bobby or someone?'

'Bobby's a couple of hours drive away. And besides, Sam, it's the least I can do for Dean to get this damn thing taken care of.'

Sam nodded, suddenly understanding. 'Just, just be careful,' he said, almost grudgingly. 'Don't forget to bring the salt and stuff with you.'

Dad actually chuckled at that. 'Promise I won't forget.'

'Good. I don't want to haul your ass out of the woods too.'

Dad had almost made it to the door, before he stopped, watching both his boys over his shoulder. 'Sammy?' And any other time, Sam would have berated him for the use of hated nickname, but now was hardly the time. 'Sammy, watch out for Dean, will you?'

It was strange, Sam reflected, as Dad left and he was left alone with Dean, that he had never been given that command before. It was weird to hear the names the other way around. Dean, he knew, was given the command to 'Watch out for Sammy' at least once a day, and this took the form of anything from making sure Sam woke up on time and ate breakfast to ensuring the vampires they were hunting didn't take a chunk out of him. Dean had been watching out for him a little too much, he reflected grimly, and he'd never thought to return the favor. He wondered when the last time Dean had had anyone watching out for him. He'd always sort of assumed that Dean would always be there, in the background maybe, but always reassuringly present, cracking inappropriate jokes and hitting on any girl that moved. He never imagined that anything could happen to _Dean._ Maybe it was childish of him to believe that his big brother was indestructible. Looking down at the pale, inert figure in the bed, he was forced to realise that Dean was anything but indestructible.

'Hey, it's me again,' he said softly, checking over his shoulder to make sure that the nurse had left the room. He didn't want anyone eavesdropping on his private conversation with his brother. He wasn't entirely sure that Dean could even hear him, but it was worth a shot and he needed to talk to Dean, to let him know that he was with him. 'Dad's gone,' he continued, 'he's gone to get that spirit. You know, the one you went after? He'll take care of it, don't worry. He told me I had to watch out for you, though. How weird does that sound? You're always the one watching out for me, and Dad. It shouldn't sound weird though, and I'm sorry, because we should always be watching out for you too. Dad didn't even notice that you got sick, and I didn't do anything about it, even though I heard you coughing. I just wished you'd said something, man.'

He fell silent, blushing a little as the nurse entered the room once again to check on Dean, taking his temperature and adjusting the IV slightly before leaving again. 'Sorry, dude, but I think the nurse is a little too old for you. Probably wouldn't stop you trying to get her number, though.' He paused, smiling a little in spite of himself. 'Anyway, I'm here, man, and I'm fine so you don't need to worry about me, alright? And Dad's fine too. Just, just try and put yourself first for a change, ok?' He could feel the tears stinging his eyes again, but he had to keep talking, had to keep trying to make Dean understand. 'Let us watch out for you for a change. All you have to do is concentrate on getting better, alright? It was friggin' scary back there, man.'

He shivered involuntarily, falling silent once more as he listened to the beeping and the whirring of the machines that were currently keeping his brother alive.

'I'm…I'm not going to fight with Dad anymore,' he said suddenly after a few moments silence. 'I'm going to listen and do what he tells me, and not be your annoying kid brother anymore. You wanted us to stop fighting, didn't you? Well, we will. I promise, Dean.'

Even though he knew his brother couldn't hear him, it felt good to get that promise off his chest. He meant to keep it too. He'd do anything in his new mission to watch out for Dean.


	4. Chapter 4

Unfortunately, it was proving a promise that was increasingly difficult to keep. The seconds had turned into minutes, the minutes into hours, and then five days had went by, and still Dean had not woken up. Dean's room in the ICU was becomingly horribly familiar, and Sam was now on a first name basis with the nurse assigned to Dean's care. She insisted he use her first name too, but there was something about calling her _Amanda_ that made the whole situation seem too familiar and comfortable, when it was anything but. 'Nurse' was better, more anonymous, less cosy and familiar, less permanent.

The hospital was an entirely different world to the one Sam was used to. Certainly they didn't come to the hospital often. Dad was a dab hand at stitching up cuts and gashes, and Sam himself had been doing it since he was no age. The last time he could remember being in hospital himself was when he had broken his arm, and even then he was only there for a couple of hours while they set it in plaster. Never before had he been forced to endure five days at the bedside of his desperately ill brother.

Sam pretty much spent every day at Dean's bedside, leaving only when the nurse forced him down to the cafeteria to get some food, or Dad insisted he get a few hours of sleep back at the motel each night. He hadn't been at school since they'd brought Dean in, but he didn't really care. They'd only been here a week or two anymore before this all happened, and he doubted whether his teachers would even notice his absence. He remembered back on that night when he'd insisted he had to study for some big test, but that had all paled into insignificance now. He couldn't even remember what class the test was for anymore. He'd actually brought all his school books with him from his most recent trip back to the motel, but they still remained untouched in his backpack. He couldn't concentrate on them now, and besides, burying himself back in his books would essentially mean that he was going back on his promise to Dean. It was Sam stuck in his own affairs that had started all this, and he wasn't about to do that again. He had to watch out for Dean, hadn't he? He couldn't do that behind the pages of a textbook.

Sam wasn't sure where Dad was, but he wasn't that worried. In fact, it was much easier to keep his promise not to fight with Dad if Dad wasn't actually there. At present, it was just Sam and Dean, the way it usually was, though the nurse was doing her usual hovering act, scribbling things on her damned clipboard, checking Dean's temperature. Almost like clockwork, Sam began his daily routine of questions, because he couldn't stand sitting here not knowing what was going on with his brother.

'How is he today?'

'You could probably give a better assessment than I could, Sam. Have you left this room at all today? You need to eat, you know.'

Sam held up his half-finished can of soda and candy bar as a way of response.

The nurse sighed. 'You won't do your brother any good by worrying yourself sick.'

'Never mind about me,' Sam said quickly. 'How is he today?'

'Your brother's stable, Sam, and that's a good sign, it really is. His temperature's gone down a little, which is a relief, and if his breathing continues to improve, then we'll be able to remove the vent. His broken ribs will take their own time to heal, and we're pumping enough antibiotics into him to clear up the sinusitis.'

'But he still hasn't woken up yet!' Sam couldn't help but point out the blatantly obvious. 'You said the sedatives would wear off after a day or two, then he would wake up!'

'Your brother sustained quite a serious head injury, Sam, and we won't know the full extent of it until he wakes up. And besides, when a person's body suffers a serious trauma, or an illness like Dean, the brain shuts itself off for a while to give the body time to repair itself. Some comatose patients may not want to wake up for one reason or another, you have to consider that too.'

'Why wouldn't he want to wake up, though?' Sam couldn't help but ask. If he knew Dean at all then his brother would be fighting tooth and nail to make his way back to the land of the living right now.

The nurse smiled her pitying, sympathetic smile that made Sam want to throw up. 'Dean could just be frightened. It must be a terrifying experience being in a coma. He doesn't know where he is or what happened, so he's scared to wake up,' she said softly.

'Dean doesn't do _scared_ or _frightened_,' Sam tried to scoff, but he couldn't completely dispel the image of his brother crying in the backseat of the Impala, crying and whispering for a long gone mother. Sam had to admit that was the closest Dean had probably ever come to being scared.

'Well then, he could just be in need of a good sleep,' the nurse continued.

Sam raised an eyebrow. 'How can he need sleep? He's been out cold for five days!'

'He could just need good, proper sleep. Your brother's been very ill, Sam, especially in the last few days, and his brain and his body just need rest to recover. He's probably been trying to wake up, and we've just missed it.'

'I won't have missed it,' Sam said stubbornly

'Just small things,' the nurse hastily amended. 'Little things, you know? His eyes twitching or something like that.'

'I'd have noticed.'

As if on cue, as if by some wonderful coincidence, one of the machines hooked up to Dean began to beep loudly, alerting the nurse to something that Sam didn't understand.

'What does that mean? What's happening?' Sam cried at once.

The nurse didn't answer him at once, instead inspecting the machine. Sam looked down at his brother, nursing a childish hope that Dean was about to sit up, perfectly restored to full health and raring to go again. Instead, he saw the tiniest twitch, almost imperceptible, in one of Dean's fingers. It was barely there, and lasted barely a second, but there had definitely been some movement.

'Is this him waking up?' Sam cried eagerly.

He watched as, just like the nurse had said, there started a small twitch in Dean's eyes, like he was struggling to open them and wake up. Sam held his breath, sure he was about to get a glimpse of those familiar green eyes he hadn't seen in days, maybe even a 'Hey Sammy' to accompany it. Instead, he was greeted with simply a hint of the whites of Dean's eyes before his eyelids fluttered shut and the machines settled down once more.

'What's going on?' Sam demanded at once. 'What just happened?'

The nurse turned back to smile at him, more of a genuine smile, less like the one she'd been trying to palm him off with the last few days. 'You see?' she said gently. 'These are the little signs I was talking about.'

'So he's going to wake up?'

'Give him time, Sam. His brain became a bit more focused there, he became more aware of his situation and panicked. It's quite common for coma patients.'

Sam wanted to retort that he didn't want to give Dean time, he wanted him to wake up now, _right now_, but he didn't want to the nurse to get annoyed and insist he leave.

'So this is a good sign?' He was surprised at the forced calmness of his voice.

She hesitated for a moment. 'Well,' she said at last, 'that was a good indication of his brain activity, and that was one of our main concerns, considering that head injury of his. But,' she said and Sam was disheartened to see that she was no longer smiling, 'he isn't out of the woods just yet. That head injury is still worrying, and we really don't know what its long term effect will be when he wakes up.' She broke off for a moment, watching Sam carefully. 'If he wakes up.'

'_When_ he wakes up,' Sam corrected her firmly.

'Yes, of course,' she said, dropping a hand onto Sam's shoulder and he did his best not to shrug it off. 'Just, just keep saying your prayers, alright?'

She left them alone once more. Sam was about to relay everything she had just told him to Dean, it was a habit he had fallen into, when Dad came into the room, sinking into the vacant chair on the other side of Dean's bed. Sam didn't ask where he had been, and Dad didn't explain, but both remained silent for a moment. Again Sam reflected on how much easier it was not to fight when neither spoke. Their prickly silence wasn't exactly comfortable or companionable, but Sam knew it was preferable to them going for each other's throats, as they were so wont to do.

Ten or so minutes passed, the only sounds the steady beeping and whirring of the machines attached to Dean, and the hustle and bustle of the busy corridor outside.

'Dean moved one of his fingers earlier,' Sam said at last, feeling it was prudent to share this information with his father.

Dad, who had been slumped in the chair, staring into space, suddenly jerked to attention. 'He did?' he asked, his eyes now fixed upon Dean as though expecting him to jump out of bed.

Sam nodded. 'His eyes twitched a bit too, just for a second though. The nurse said that's normal.'

Silence crept up on them once more. With a slightly bitter thought, Sam realised that normal families wouldn't react like this. He'd seen those normal families, trudging past the rooms of other patients as he made his reluctant way to the cafeteria or the motel. Normal families helped each other when one of the members was in the hospital; he'd seen them huddled together, gripping each other's hands as they waited for news. They hugged each other, yelled in joy when the news was good, throwing their arms round each other. When the news was bad, they collapsed into each other's arms, dried each other's tears, stroked hair and whispered condolences and sympathies. None of the others sat in painful silence, waiting for a son, a brother to wake up. None of the other patients had to be scared of waking up, scared that the two people he loved most in the world would be fighting again; the same fighting which had allowed him to get so ill and injured in the first place.

'What are we going to do, Dad?' Sam said quietly, some time later.

Dad looked up, frowning slightly. 'What do you mean?'

Sam indicated the pale and lifeless form lying between them. 'What are we going to do about Dean?'

'We're going to wait for him to wake up, Sam, what else would we do?'

The words had left Sam's lips before he could stop them, and he instantly regretted them. 'But what if he doesn't wake up?'

Dad scowled, his hands tightening round the armrests of his chair, and for the first time, Sam realised that he was _scared._ If seeing Dean scared and upset was unusual, then Dad being scared was downright weird.

'He _will_ wake up,' Dad said firmly through gritted teeth. 'He has to. You hear me, Dean?' he added, directing the last words at his eldest son's prone body.

'It's his head injury,' Sam said quietly. 'That nurse said the rest of it is under control.' Now that he had started talking, he didn't seem able to stop. 'His temperature's gone down a bit and they're giving him loads of antibiotics and his breathing's improving. But they don't know how bad his head injury is, and they won't know until he wakes up.'

'Dean's going to be fine,' Dad muttered, almost automatically. 'He always is.'

'It's different this time,' Sam burst out. 'This isn't just a cut that needs a few stitches or a bang on the head that just needs an ice pack and some painkillers. Dean's seriously ill, Dad. They don't know if he's ever going to wake up, _ever_, and even if he does, he could have brain damage, or he mightn't remember anything, and he won't be Dean anymore!'

'Sam, lower your voice, you'll get us thrown out.'

Sam clenched his fists, biting down so hard on his lip that he drew blood, trying to stop himself from tearing into his father, thinking hard of his promise.

'You're upset, I understand,' Dad was continuing.

'Do you?' Sam couldn't hold the words back.

Dad narrowed his eyes. 'I'm many things, boy, but I'm not an idiot. I can tell when my own son is upset.'

'You couldn't tell when your own son was sick though, could you?'

Ah. There was it was. Sam had done so well to hold it in for five days, but he couldn't do it anymore. The words had fallen from his lips, almost without his volition, all promises flown from his mind.

'Sammy-'

'Don't _Sammy_ me, Dad. You didn't even notice that Dean was sick, and now look where he is!'

'He should have told me. If I had known-'

Sam cut him off again. 'What would you have done if you'd known, Dad? Told him to go back to bed? Made him soup and tucked him in? Come off it. You'd have told him to man up and stop acting like a kid.'

'Sam, stop it.'

But Sam continued. 'You act more like an army commander than a real father. Well, this may be news to you, Dad, but me and Dean aren't soldiers, and we aren't invincible. Dean's pretty much proved that, hasn't he? He was so damn eager to please and not disappoint you, and look what happened.' He broke off, breathing heavily through his nose as though he had just run a great distance.

'I know why this happened,' Dad said quietly. 'I know I'm to blame, but you have to admit-'

'I have to admit that it's my fault too? Well I know, Dad, I know it's my fault. If I had stopped acting like a spoiled little kid and followed your orders like a good little soldier, then Dean would be fine. Yeah, I know, Dad!'

To his horror, hot tears filled his eyes and began splashing down his cheeks. He furiously wiped them away with the back of his hand.

'Sam, listen, Dean himself-'

'You can blame me all you want, Dad, and you should sure as hell blame yourself, but don't you dare try and blame Dean, don't you dare. He couldn't trust either of us enough to tell us he was ill, and then he went off on that hunt himself, trying to protect me and be loyal to you. Dean spends his whole life looking out for us, both of us, and we let him end up fighting for his life in a hospital bed. You know what that nurse said? She said that coma patients are sometimes too scared to wake up, too scared of what they're going to find when they open their eyes. Dean's scared, Dad, he's scared of our reactions, scared that you'll be angry with him, that I'll be worried.' Sam broke off, almost panting for breath as he pushed his sweaty hair off his face.

'Well you are worried, and I'm sure as hell angry.'

'How-how can you be angry with him now?' Sam spluttered. 'After everything? How can you be angry with him now?'

'Because it was damned irresponsible and reckless what he did. Out in that rain, not even a jacket, not even armed. What if that spirit had have caught up with him?' Dad raised his voice for the first time.

Shaking, literally shaking with anger, a red mist descended in front of his eyes. 'He had a fever!' he yelled, forgetting he was in a hospital, forgetting that he needed to be quiet, forgetting the promise he had made not to fight with his father.

Dad probably made some reply, but Sam couldn't hear. Two hospital orderlies, broad shouldered and even taller than he was, had arrived. He and Dad were rather forcibly removed from the room, told to go and cool off elsewhere. Sam's shouts of 'Leave me alone!' mingled with Dad swearing under his breath and the orderlies' talking loudly about 'tensions running high' and 'difficult times will do this.'

In the ensuing chaos, nobody noticed the figure in the bed. As Sam and Dad were removed, the door swinging shut behind them, nobody was there to see Dean clench his right hand into a fist. Nobody heard the loud beeping of the machines as Dean opened his eyes fully for the first time in five days, looking all around, dazed and confused. It was too much for him, and by the time the nurse noticed and rushed to his bedside, his eyes had already closed again. It had been nice while it lasted, but ultimately, he fell back asleep as the sounds of Sam and Dad fighting filled his ears once again.

s


	5. Chapter 5

Sam didn't want Dean to know that he'd missed him waking up for the first time because he'd been fighting with Dad. When he'd returned to the hospital the next morning, suitably cooled off and embarrassed, it was to find that Dean's ventilator had been removed. The beaming nurse had told him that Dean's breathing had drastically improved overnight, and now he just needed an oxygen cannula to give a helping hand rather than do all the breathing for him. It was then she told him, rather hesitantly, that Dean had fully opened his eyes literally seconds after Sam had been removed from the room.

'And you didn't call us back?' Sam retorted furiously, though he was careful not to raise his voice, not wanting to get in trouble again.

The nurse probably responded, but Sam was no longer listening, the familiar feelings of shame twisting his insides once again. Back in the car, when he'd feared all hope was gone, that his brother was irretrievably lost, Dean had been roused by the sounds of Sam and Dad arguing, had actually come round long enough to plead with them to stop. Had it happened again? Sam felt sick at the thought that it was fighting, rather than the long whispered one sided conversations at his bedside that had prompted a response from Dean.

He hoped that Dean wouldn't remember it, and immediately felt guilty at the thought that he was wishing memory loss upon his brother. He hoped that when Dean woke up properly, which the doctors were now extremely hopeful would take place sooner than later, he would have no recollection of Dad and Sam fighting so loudly they had to be escorted out, leaving Dean to recover consciousness alone. He slid into the now extremely familiar chair by Dean's bed, immediately noting the absence of a ventilator with a small smile. With that gone, Dean almost looked like he could be sleeping normally, especially now his temperature was almost back to normal and his face was returning to its normal colour. It was only the bandage wrapped round his head, the oxygen cannula and the IV that pointed to the contrary.

He couldn't wait until this was all over, until Dean woke up and they could finally leave the damn hospital and set off on the road again. He couldn't wait to leave this whole damn town. Ever since they'd arrived here about three weeks before, there'd been nothing but arguments, reluctant hunts, sleepless nights punctuated by Dean's coughs, and now this. Then again, apart from Dean getting sick of course, it had been like this for a while now, regardless of which town they happened to find themselves in. _But not anymore_, Sam decided firmly. Dean had woken up to the sounds of fighting for the last time.

Sam hadn't spoken a word to Dad since their argument the night before. Their car ride back to the motel had passed in stony silence, and Sam had gone straight to bed, pulling the covers over his head to show his father that he had absolutely no desire to speak to him, knowing it looked absurdly childish but unable to care. Dad had been gone in the morning; left before Sam had woken up, leaving a scribbled note saying he'd be back that evening, and a box of cereal on the kitchen table. It wasn't the kind he liked, Dean knew his favorites but Dad didn't and he left it uneaten. With Dad gone, probably in the pursuit of some job or something, Sam, therefore, made his own way to the hospital; he could travel the route in his sleep by this stage. He was sure Dad would drop in some time this afternoon, and Sam would, of course, be expected to apologise for his outburst the night before.

When Dean woke, it was no longer a question of _if,_ Sam decided that he would pretend it was the first time he had opened his eyes. He had no intention of mentioning the argument of the night before. Dean deserved a happy family waiting to welcome him back into consciousness, like the other patients in the hospital. Dean didn't have to know.

Dean, however, deserved a lot more credit than Sam was giving him.

When he'd opened his eyes the night before, was it a night, he couldn't tell, he had been able to hear Sam and Dad arguing. That hadn't surprised him. In fact, he sort of assumed that would be his wake up call. It was more effective than any alarm clock these days. No, it was the other things that surprised him. Like why he had what felt like a damn tube down this throat for one thing, or why he felt like someone had beaten the absolute shit out of him. Had someone beaten the shit out of him? He couldn't remember. He fully intended to ask someone, preferably Sam or Dad, just what the hell was going on, but he couldn't see them, and he felt so damn _tired_ that he was asleep again before he knew it, and he couldn't hear Dad and Sam anymore.

As he slept, or whatever, strange, disjointed fragments flittered across his mind, and he couldn't tell they were dreams, or memories, or just figments of his imagination. Dimly, like it was an old movie he had forgotten most of the details of, he could remember being angry, and upset, more angry than he'd ever been before. He couldn't exactly remember why he felt so angry, until the familiar sounds of arguments jogged his mind. Of course! Dad and Sam ad been fighting, nothing new there, but something had been different…_he_ had been different. Then it all got fuzzy and confusing. He remembered going off somewhere by himself, he wasn't sure where, and then…and then…he wasn't sure what happened next.

He had blurred recollections of rain, and cold, and coughing, and blood. He'd been sick, hadn't he? That's what was wrong. That's why he was stuck here, wherever here was. He wasn't sure if he'd imagined what had happened next, but he seemed to remember Sam being there, and maybe Dad, and the car but he wasn't driving, and that was odd in itself. And then Mom was there, but that couldn't be right because Mom was dead, and if she was there, then maybe Dean was dead too. He could feel the scorching heat of the fire, see the vivid orange flames licking at the ceiling and the walls of Sammy's nursery, and Dad was shouting, shouting at him to take Sammy and go. The bundle of blankets that was his little brother was soft and warm against his pyjamas and the little hair Sammy had tickled as he clutched him close to his chest. _'Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back. Now, Dean, go!' _But that wasn't right, because Dean wasn't allowed to hold Sammy by himself, Mommy always said he had to be gentle with his little brother, and Daddy would be so angry if he dropped Sammy. He didn't understand what was happening, and he wanted his Mom and his Dad, but he had to keep running even if he was terrified that he might drop Sammy, especially as he ran down the stairs. And he'd seen the fire properly, spreading over their house and he didn't do what Dad said because he stopped and looked back, and he was too scared to move. He didn't understand what was happening, but he knew he was scared, more scared than he'd ever been before. Sammy was wriggling in his arms, and Dean was tried desperately to keep a hold of him and he didn't know what to do.

And then Dad was there, scooping both of them into his arms, and still Dean kept his arms tight around his brother even as Dad ran. But Mom wasn't there, and that could only mean one thing, because Mom was _always_ there, and even as the firemen arrived with their hoses to put out their burning house, Dean called out for her, because if she heard him calling then she'd come, like she always did. He was having a nightmare, he had to be, and Mom would be there soon to turn on the light and tell him that everything would be ok.

'Mom! Mom!' he shouted, but nobody could hear him over the crackling of the flames and the gushing of the hoses.

But Mom was gone, he _knew_ she was gone, years ago, but why was he thinking of her now? But if Mom was gone, then who had put him in this nice, warm bed? He was quite sure he was in a bed somewhere, and Mom was the only one who looked after him when he was sick. She was the one who smoothed his sweaty hair off his face and held his hand and made him tomato rice soup because that's what her Mom made when she was sick. In that moment, he thought of his Mom more clearly than he had in years. He could practically smell her perfume, feel her long hair tickling his face, making him laugh as she tucked the blankets more tightly round his shoulders.

There was only one thing for it. He was going to have to wake the hell up, and find out what was going on. Easier said than done though. He'd never felt so tired in his whole life and he wanted nothing more than to stay, warm and comfortable, in this nice quiet bed where there was no fighting and no slamming doors. It felt like someone was pinning his limbs down, clamping his eyelids shut and for a moment he wondered whether he was being attacked by a spirit or something. Perhaps he was on a hunt with Dad and some ghost with a bad attitude was taking out its anger on him. At last, with the greatest effort the seemingly simple task had ever cost him, he succeeded in opening his eyes, and immediately regretted it.

Whose stupid decision had it been to make the light so bright? The harsh brightness stung like hell and he was tempted to close his eyes again, but he persevered, his teeth clenched with the effort, and his surroundings finally swam into view, albeit a little hazily.

The first thing that struck him was just how white the place was, and how clean. It definitely didn't look familiar, and all at once, his senses were all assaulted at once, and he could take a pretty good guess as to where he was. The sharp, antiseptic smell, the beeping of unidentifiable machines, the sudden ache in every part of his body all suggested that he was in the hospital. Brilliant. He tried to turn his head slightly to the side to get a better look around, but something held him in place; what felt like thin wires crossed his face and tickled his nose and his head was suddenly throbbing.

A slight movement to his right caught his attention and he strained, trying to get a good look at whatever, whoever, it was.

'Dean?' came a voice, a most familiar voice, from his right.

He knew that voice anywhere. 'Sammy!' he cried, or at least he tried to. All that came out was a croaking, rasping cough as a horrible tightness suddenly seared across his chest. His throat felt like sandpaper.

'Dean, you're awake!' Sam stood up and Dean could see his brother properly; his grinning from ear to ear, floppy haired brother. God, that kid was in desperate need of a haircut.

'Looks like it,' he wheezed, not even recognising the hoarse voice as his own. He sounded like an old man who smoked forty cigarettes a day. Disgusting.

'How are you feeling?' His brother sounded much younger somehow, his voice full of concern.

Dean wanted to tell him that all his muscles ached like hell, his limbs felt like lead, his lungs felt like someone had punched the crap out of them and he had the world's worst headache, but he knew he didn't have enough breath to convey all that. And besides, Sam sounded worried enough already. 'Ok, I guess,' he said at last.

Sam scoffed. 'Well, you're obviously lying, but you sound like yourself. I guess that means you're going to be alright.'

From his left, there came another familiar voice though he hadn't even noticed that Dad was in the room too. 'What the hell were you thinking, Dean?' To Dean's surprise, Dad didn't sound that angry, it was more annoyed, disappointed.

'When?' Dean asked, his voice sounding a little more normal after Sam helped him swallow a spoonful of ice chips and the coolness soothed a raw throat.

'You don't remember?' Sam asked at once, his brow creasing, his eyes narrowed in concern.

Dean frowned, which only served to aggravate his sore head even further. 'Sort of,' he admitted.

'I'll tell you what happened,' Dad muttered. 'You acted like an idiot, that's what, and went storming off by yourself, even though you know damn well that you're not to do that. That's not bravery, that's plain recklessness. So help me God, if you ever pull some kind of stupid stunt like that again-'

'Dad!' Sam said sharply and warningly. He turned his attention back to Dean, his expression instantly softening. 'You were sick, Dean, really sick, with a fever and everything, and you went off by yourself. We found you in the woods at the edge of town. You hit your head pretty bad and you'd passed out, so we brought you to the hospital.' He gestured round the tiny hospital room. 'So here we are. That was six days ago.'

'Six days? Crap.' With Sam's words, the bits and pieces Dean could remember suddenly made sense. With a pang, he deduced that it must have been his fever that made him imagine his Mom. He noticed that neither Sam nor Dad had made any mention of the fact that they had been fighting. That was probably deliberate. Assumedly, they didn't think he remembered that's what had driven him out into the rain in the first place, and they didn't want to bring the subject up again. Presumably they also weren't aware that their fighting had managed to rouse him slightly. He decided he wouldn't bring it up then either. Perhaps it hadn't really happened, he thought in an attempt to console himself. Perhaps his feverish mind had created it all, and what he thought were weeks and months' worth of fights were actually just figments of his imagination. After all, Dad and Sam, the two people he loved and cared about most in the world, couldn't actually be so absorbed in their arguments that they failed to notice that he was sick, or that he'd woken up from a coma, could they?

Apparently they could.

He'd drifted away from the conversation for a few minutes, his exhausted eyes closing over and Sam and Dad probably thought he'd gone back to sleep, or maybe they always talked like this in front of him and he was just hearing it more clearly now.

'Jesus, Dad, that was a great conversation opener there. Threatening him and calling him an idiot? Yeah, I'm really sure that's what Dean wanted to hear!'

'Give it a rest, Sam.' Dad sounded weary and long suffering.

'I knew it,' Sam hissed, sounding furious. 'I knew you'd still be angry, even after I told you all what the nurse said. That's probably what took him so long to wake up.'

'Fine, you've made your point. Happy now?'

'No, I'm not happy, Dad,' Sam snapped.

Dean debated opening his eyes again and telling them to shut the hell up, but decided against it, rightly assuming he wouldn't be able to get enough breath into his lungs to complete the sentence. Thankfully, he was saved by the arrival of a third voice, a completely unfamiliar one this time.

'Did I hear that someone was awake?'

He opened his eyes again to see who he assumed was a nurse, if her blue scrubs and clipboard were anything to go by. She beamed at him, adjusting the IV he hadn't even noticed was stuck in his left hand and checking his vitals.

'Hello there, Dean,' she said brightly, and she had a nice voice, a calm, pleasant one that was a welcome relief. 'It's nice to see those pretty eyes of yours open at last!'

If he didn't know better, he'd think she was hitting on him and he smiled gratefully at her, glad of the distraction from Dad and Sam arguing.

'How are you feeling, sweetheart?'

'Kind of crap,' he admitted and she nodded sympathetically.

'Bacterial pneumonia isn't pleasant,' she said kindly, 'and that head injury of yours didn't do you any favors, but you're going to be ok. It's actually kind of a miracle, Dean. Everyone thought you were a goner when your dad and brother brought you in.'

Sam shot a sharp look in her direction and she seemed to catch her mistake.

'But you're going to be ok now, aren't you? We'll need to do a couple of scans, just to make sure that everything's alright, and you're going to need some respiratory therapy to help those lungs of yours. Even still,' she grinned, 'I tell you, Dean, you must have a pretty good guardian angel watching out for you to pull you out of this one.'

He could hear Dad snorting derisively. 'Don't know about…guardian angels,' Dean said slowly. Squeezing out every word was an effort and his painfully tight chest seemed intent on making sure he stayed silent.

The nurse laughed. 'Well, you had your brother watching out for you. That must have counted for something.'

Dean glanced sideways at Sam who'd suddenly looked to the floor, his face blazing. 'Yeah,' he said slowly. 'Yeah…thanks, Sammy.'

They needed a proper conversation, Dean knew that, but he was as hell wouldn't be able to do that until his lungs decided to do their damn job, and until Dad and the nurse had left them alone. Then again, did they ever have proper conversations? No, he mused sadly, they didn't, and he knew that they wouldn't have one now either. As much as he wanted to, he knew they never would. That would hardly be watch out for Sammy, wouldn't it, telling him that it broke his damn heart a little every time he and Dad snapped at each other? He suddenly wished that it didn't have to be this way. He wished he didn't have to watch out for Sammy every minute of every day. He wished Dad would act like a proper father and keep an eye on the both of them, like he should, rather than leaving it all to him. He felt so childish to think it, and he knew he would never say it aloud to anyone, but he wished Mom was alive, and she could look after them all.

He didn't even feel the tears building in his eyes until they began to trickle down his cheeks. He should have felt ashamed to be openly crying in front of his dad and his brother, he was nineteen years of age for God's sake, but he couldn't summon the energy to care anymore. Hopefully they would attribute it to the painkillers or something.

Sam had turned back towards the bed in an instant. 'Does it really hurt, Dean?' he said quietly, glancing nervously towards the nurse.

He could have reached up a hand to wipe the damn tears away, but what was the point? 'Yeah, Sammy,' he replied, closing his eyes and hoping for sleep. 'It hurts…like hell.'

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed and favourited this story. I am genuinely overwhelmed by the interest and the kind words! This is the final chapter and I hope everyone enjoys it. I apologise profusely for any wrong Americanisms or medical inaccuracies that occurred, and I'm sorry for everything I put our poor boys through!**


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